


No Room in This Hell

by LivingSilver



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Drunk Sex, F/M, Language, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Mentions of Violence, light blood play, past self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 18:44:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20728994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivingSilver/pseuds/LivingSilver
Summary: She passes without acknowledging any of them, radiating his own brand of hate and anger; he wants to cut himself on the edge of her perfectly winged liner; wants her to light the light match he'll throw to burn this stupid little town to the ground.





	No Room in This Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Title partially taken from MCR's Early Sunsets over Monroeville.   
Wanted to write a fic where Billy went for the Bad Girl and somehow it turned into this shit show.  
Drinking age was still 18 in 1984.

First day of Hell at Hawkins High. Billy is sure this is the beginning of a slow, painful death. The stereotypical Midwesterness of it, all simplicity and pleasantness, sets his teeth on edge. If one more person smiles at him, he's going to punch something.

He's just trying to make it through the day, on his way to 4th period, when he sees her. Black boots. Black jeans. Black studded leather jacket. Long, red hair. Not the natural ginger of his annoying step sister, but out-of-a-box-red like the merlot Susan keeps hidden in a drawer somewhere. People subtly move aside with a glance and a murmur. She passes without acknowledging any of them, radiating his own brand of hate and anger; he wants to cut himself on the edge of her perfectly winged liner; wants her to light the light match he'll throw to burn this stupid little town to the ground.

"Who is that?"

Curiosity evident in his voice because the only person of importance he's heard about all day so far is _Steve Harrington, _and he's hardly anyone. Billy ate boys like Steve for breakfast back in California.

"Oh her. Just some freak. She never talks to anyone anymore, and we all just stay out of her way; heard she's a real bitch now," Tommy shrugs. 

Billy gives a slow, thoughtful nod.

"You don't say?"

The corners of his mouth pull into a smirk.

They end up having a class together. He watches the way her jaw clenches and her knuckles tighten every time Nancy Wheeler or some other goody goody raises their hand to answer a question. He half expects her to get up and deck someone in the face right in the middle of class. He's disappointed when she doesn't.

He finds her a few days later at her locker on Halloween.

"Hey," he grins, "I'm new here, I don't think we've met--I'm Billy."

She continues switching out her books.

He takes her silence as permission to continue.

"You going to this?" He asks holding up Tina's bright orange Halloween bash flyer.

She raises a brow; lets out a small laugh of disbelief.

"Let me clear some things up for you then _Billy_ since you're new here. I don't want to talk to any of you okay? So don't talk to me, and I don't _do_ parties."

Her tone is lazy and condescending.

"What? Are you too good for the rest of us or something?" Billy smarts, rolling his gum to the other side of his mouth.

"No, I just hate people."

"So I'll see you there?"

She gives him a flat look. Shuts her locker. Turns on the heel of her motorcycle boot.

Billy's leaning against her locker the next day.

"You didn't show last night."

He hadn't expected her to; spent the night hooking up with a nice blonde regardless; it's just an excuse to be here.

"What did I say yesterday about talking to me?"

"Yeah, Billy, what are you doing talking to this freak again?" Tommy says, coming up behind him.

She squares her jaw.

"Fuck off Tommy, before I bash your face in with this textbook," she threatens boredly.

Tommy laughs, but Billy throws him a look and he leaves with a shrug.

"What'd you do last night anyways? Bet Halloween's your favorite holiday."

"Sacrificed some virgins," she deadpans.

Billy isn't phased.

"Sounds fun; maybe I can join you next time." 

"It's not really a group activity."

She leaves him at the lockers again.

He comes back at the end of the next week, hoping a little more time would allow his newly cemented bad boy reputation to catch her interest.

"You wanna hang out this weekend?"

"No."

"Come on," he lowers his voice, "we can talk shit about the other dumb asses in this lame school." 

She seems to look at him now for the first time since he's been here in a sly sidelong glance, corners of her mouth turning up just so.

"Sure," she acquiesces.

He flashes her a cutting smile.

"Pick you up at 8, Saturday? What's your address?"

"5252 West Oak."

"Alright, see you then." He leaves her with a wink.

Saturday night. He drives down West Oak one way and then the other. The numbers are hard to read in the dark. Drives back the other way again. Leans back in his seat with a huff because the street ends at 3500.

"5252 West Oak, huh?" He prompts casually Monday morning at her locker.

"What, you couldn't find it? I think it intersects with Never Going To Happen Drive," She replies sweetly.

He bites the inside of his cheek to check his anger; doesn't want her to know how pissed he actually is. He lets her walk away and doesn't bother again; plenty of bitches here who would be grateful if he even looked in their general direction.

They exist separately; she contentedly ignores him along with everyone else, and he studies her during their one class; tries to think up different ways to get her on his side. He'll try again soon, he thinks; he's already starting to get bored with the other vanilla girls around here.

He doesn't have to try again though because she finds him one Saturday night on her way out of work of all things. She's walking out of the drug store where she works on the outskirts of Hawkins, just far enough to be inconvenient for most the of regular townsfolk, making it an ideal place to work without having to deal with assholes from school, so the familiar blue Camaro parked at the far end of the lot, just a few empty spaces down from her instantly sets her on edge, and she walks over with every intention of telling him off for being a fucking creeper. Except as she gets closer she notices the body in the driver's seat is slumped disconcertedly against the window. A mess of familiar dirty blonde curls pressed against the glass.

She leans down, tapping the window hesitantly. No response.

Tap, tap, tap.

Tap, taP, TAP.

It finally penetrates the dull fog in Billy's head and he raises his head slowly, carefully, because it all fucking hurts, and glances around his car blearily before turning towards the direction of the tap, tap, tapping.

Jesus. He rolls down the window. She takes in the two bloody cuts across his right cheek bone, the split lip, the bloody nose, the bruise on his forehead.

"Are you--do you need help?" She asks blankly.

"No doctors," he mumbles, too out of it to ask why she's bothering; he just knows if he passes out again, he's not sure when he'll be coming around.

"Okay, just stay here, I'll be back."

He doesn't even last the few minutes she's gone back into the store to get supplies.

She taps the window again until he wakes up; tries to help him from his car to hers as discretely as possible, wrapping an arm beneath his shoulders, and he's all muscle, leaning heavily against her until she deposits him safely in her passenger seat.

She doesn't have to worry about sneaking him in when she gets home because her mom is still out, and they repeat the process, except its considerably farther this time from her car, inside the house to her room, but they manage between a series of disgruntled sighs and readjustments.

She sits him down on the side of her bed, sits on the floor to peel off his boots, then her hands are sliding beneath his jacket, over his shoulders until that's gone too. Her touch humming pleasantly through the cotton of his t-shirt. She lifts his legs up onto the bed and props him up against the pillows, hands moving to undo the buckle of his belt next.

"'M Sorry, don't think, don't think I'm exactly _up_ for it right now," he slurs suggestively, still managing to be an asshole even with a mild concussion.

She rolls her eyes.

"Lift your hips, dumbass."

He complies with the smallest of smirks, and she pulls the belt off, laying it neatly on the floor next to his boots.

He stares up at the still slightly out of focus ceiling. It's been a long time since Neil has fucked him up this badly. He remembers the sharp blow of his punches, military ring cutting into his skin, and once he'd been knocked onto the floor, the dent of his boot kicking against his ribs. He vaguely remembers Max getting involved, buying him enough time to grab his keys, Susan standing around useless as usual. He had every intention of driving the hell out of this one star town with no intention of returning, passing everything in a blur but the ringing in his ears was getting too loud and the lanes of the road were blurring together, either from the tears or the concussion or both. The drug store parking lot had been the first place to pull over after leaving everything else behind.

She's coming back into the dimly lit room now armed with ice packs and an assortment of first aid supplies; sits on the edge of the bed next to him. Fingers pressing into his jaw, turning his face one way then the other.

"Fuck, Hargrove, I don't even know where to start."

She decides to start with a glass of water and 600mg of Advil, which he quickly downs. Then she mixes a warm saline solution in her bathroom and returns to start dabbing at the dried blood on his split lower lip, split right down the middle where its fullest; absently notices just how full it is. She applies a tiny amount of anti-biotic ointment once its clean--"Don't lick your lips."

The cuts on his cheek are next, both perfectly placed right on the curve of his cheekbone, the blood from one blooming into the other. She cleans them and carefully applies a butterfly bandage to each.

"Am I still gonna be pretty?" Billy murmurs jokingly, half delirious, casting her a look through cloudy blue eyes.

"Even prettier," she answers distractedly, worrying at the blood on his cupids bow. "Do you think your nose is broken?"

He raises a hand to his face and feels carefully along the sides of his nose.

"No, 'ts not broken, just hurts like a bitch."

To be fair, he's never actually had a broken nose, so he's not exactly sure, but one time in California, he broke his arm, so he imagines it would feel something like that, and it doesn't.

She places an icepack in the palm of his hand.

"You're gonna have to help me okay? I don't have enough hands--" she trails off unfinished, because pretty much his whole face needs to be iced.

He nods, and presses an ice pack against his nose, while she presses one against his lip, and another against his cheek--she decides, worst case scenario, he can hide the bruise opening up off to the left side of his forehead with his hair.

She glances at the clock.

"We should try to do this for at least 30 minutes."

He groans against the ice pack, and stares at the ceiling.

"Was it one of your parents? Parents are the fucking worst."

He nods in agreement.

Her arms begin to tire as the minutes drag on. She glances at the clock. It's only been 5 minutes. She shifts to change the angle of her shoulders, and it brings them closer. He notices how she's looking down at the bed, then off to the corner, then up at the ceiling, anywhere but him and he studies the angles of her face, counts the different hues of red in her hair to keep himself occupied; finds one that matches the blood drying on his white t-shirt.

Another few more minutes pass. Another roll of her shoulders. Gaze accidentally meeting his as she does so. They're so close now, she could practically be in his lap, can feel the warmth coming off of him. He thinks he sees a flush spreading across her chest, but then the edges of his vision are fading black, eyelids getting heavy.

His hand holding the icepack to his nose drops away from his face.

"Okay, time for bed then," she says pulling away from him.

She leaves, returning the ice packs to the freezer; Billy out cold when she gets back. She lays a blanket over him, climbs into covers on the other side of her bed, and reaches over him to click off the lamp.

It's warm when she stirs awake the next morning, warm and cozy and drowsy; her blanket is so heavy, it's nice, she doesn't remember it being so heavy before. She opens her eyes, glancing down to find Billy's arm thrown over her shoulder. Right. The covers are bunched up between them, separating their bodies by scant inches, but his nose is pressed into her hair from trying to seek the closeness denied by the covers.

She tries to shrug the lead weight of his arm off her shoulder, carefully, carefully, and he groans.

"What time is it?" He says mostly into the pillow, still mostly asleep, but he's close enough for his voice to touch the back of her neck and travel down to the base of her spine.

"Just after 8."

Another groan. She finally succeeds in shrugging away from him.

"Go back to sleep Hargrove."

And he does. Because he's not ready to face all the hurt that's sure to linger in his body for the next few days, hell the next week. Because he doesn't remember the last time he's slept half so well. There's always some noise at the house that he has to drown out that he's never completely able to--Neil mowing the lawn, Neil leaf blowing, Neil watching TV, Neil yelling at Susan. It's quiet here; he can almost pretend he's dead.

It's about 10am when he actually comes around. She's sitting on the other side of the bed, reading against the headboard. He slowly rolls over onto his back, piecing together the fragments of the night.

He turns his face against the pillow to look at her; eyes running the length of her legs exposed by her cotton shorts, before reaching her face. It’s the first time he's seen her without her signature eyeliner, but she doesn't look any less guarded.

"Thought you were a horrible bitch who hated everyone?" He muses, voice rough from sleep.

"I mean I am, but I'm not like a shitty person, you know? I have standards," she clarifies, as if it should be obvious.

Billy thinks if his whole fucking face and everything else didn't hurt, he would laugh his ass off. He manages a weak chuckle instead.

"Jesus, okay," he takes a breath, runs a hand through his hair.

"You can crash here today if you want," she offers. She knows what it's like to not want to go home.

He raises a brow.

"You sure? Your parents won't care?"

"Just me and my mom. If we're quiet she'll probably never know; and we can probably sneak out when she leaves to get groceries or whatever."

Billy accepts with a nod. He doesn't really want to go back to the house, he'll have to sneak in and all that shit, keep a low profile in his room the next few days. He hasn't seen himself in a mirror yet, not sure if he wants to, but he already knows he's not going to be able to show his face at school tomorrow. Or the next day. And there's sure as hell no one else from school he could crash with; no one who actually gives a fuck about him, who wouldn't ask him a thousand million annoying, meaningless questions he doesn't feel like explaining away.

"Use your shower?" He asks.

When he finally gets in front of the mirror, he can't decide if the damage is better or worse than he'd imagined. He looks like hell either way; no explanation for this aside from _I got hit by a car_. The cuts on his cheek are red and angry, and the one closer to his eye fades into a blue and black bruise that skirts around the hollow crescent of his eye, touching the end of his brow. His lip is already knitting together at least. Some bruising along the sides of his nose. He peels off his shirt to reveal the bruises patterning his rib cage. He's surprised he can't make out Neil's actual boot print.

The warm spray of water helps ease his hurts, but he knows it's only temporary.

"Shirt has blood on it," he says coming out of the bathroom in only his jeans.

"Oh--" she looks up from her book, flicks a single cursory glance, down then up over the lines of his body, "right."

She gets up and starts going through her dresser, she's sure she has an old, oversized band shirt somewhere that should fit.

She turns, shirt in hand, and Billy steps closer to take it. His hair is damp, leaving the translucent gleam of water on his shoulders and trailing down his chest. Fingers brush hers just as her gaze hits the bruises on his ribs; he wears them better than he should.

"You sure you want me to put this on?" He teases, brushing aside any vulnerability her gaze might bring. "I can leave it off if you want."

"We should go out, you need to eat," she deflects easily.

He pulls the shirt on, it fits well, even if it is a little snug, the faded Black Sabbath logo tight across his chest.

"You're kidding right?" He says sitting on the bed and taking more Advil.

The last thing he needs is for the whole damn town to know his dad beat the shit out of him. Harrington would go back to being King Steve. Everyone looking at him with sad, puppy dog eyes as he passes through the halls of the school.

"We can go the next town over," she suggests, as if following his same train of thought, "it's not far, like 30 minutes or something."

He hums, reluctant, but his stomach makes the decision for him. He's starving.

He chain smokes on the ride over with the window half way down; makes a face at the garbled distortion of black metal that comes through her speakers when she turns her car on.

"You actually like this?"

"You actually like that hair metal shit they play on MTV?"

He exhales smoke through his nose.

The town over is even smaller than Hawkins, and the diner is practically deserted.

They take a booth in the far back corner. Billy sits on the side facing the wall. Hiding what little damage he can behind his aviators.

"Heard you used to be best friends with Wheeler in the good girls club," he says, filling the silence while they wait for their food. He'd also heard other things too--she was actually a vampire; she had a biker for a boyfriend.

"We weren't best friends."

"Friends then."

"And?" She questions dryly.

"And?" He echoes, exasperated, "what happened?"

He knows he's prying but he doesn't really care, doesn't really care that she didn't plan on finding him passed out in a drug store parking lot wearing the marks of Neil's rage, but she did, and now she owes him.

"People change."

"Bullshit, did you have a crush on Harrington and she beat you to it or some shit?"

She laughs.

"Yeah, you got me, that's exactly what happened."

He shakes his head; leans back in the booth.

"Fine, guess I'll have to ask the princess herself then."

Her gaze flashes angry in an instant, and he knows he has her attention now.

"You're not going to ask that little bitch anything."

"Then tell me."

"It's none of your business Hargrove." And there's an edge there. "Just like its none of my business to ask why your dad beat the shit out of you so I haven't," she adds casually, calling him out.

The muscle of his jaw feathers.

The food arrives, ending the discussion. Billy eats carefully so as not to reopen his lip. He's contemplating just asking her to take him back to his car, feeling suddenly like her offer to stay the day has been withdrawn.

"We should get shitfaced," she says calmly between sips of her coffee. She's not even looking at him when she says it, she's looking out the window, and he's sure she must have misheard her, must still have that concussion from last night.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"We should get shitfaced," she repeats turning away from the window, "alcohol fixes everything." The faintest hint of a smirk plays at the corner of her lips.

He points his fork at her, looking at her over the rim of his sunglasses.

"I think, we're gonna be friends."

Back in her room, she pulls a bottle of vodka out from under her bed and a shot glass from her nightstand drawer while Billy looks over her music collection which is a variety of pentagrams, Baphomet's, upside down crosses; he manages to find some classic shit, and puts in a Zeppelin tape.

"Just have the one glass," she says, handing him the bottle and the shot glass.

The vodka burns in the best way, and they pass it between them for a few shots, until he already feels the pleasant numb of imminent drunkenness spreading through his chest. Then she's laying back on her bed, propped up against the pillows, grinning dumb and lazy, her normally cool exterior slipping.

"What?" He asks laying on his back next to her.

"I love vodka," she hums, content. She used to cut herself, but then she turned 18. Discovered drinking was a much more enjoyable form of self-destruction.

They lay there, occasionally still passing the vodka between them, bluesy toned riffs of Jimmy Page drifting quietly out of the speakers.

"What are you thinking about?" He prompts; she's been staring at the ceiling for a few minutes, the look in her eyes getting more and more distant.

"How much I want to fucking die," she answers without thinking, and it's not sad, it's just tired.

Shit.

"Sorry," she amends, "this is why I don't talk to anyone; no one fucking gets it. Here, now you have to drink until you blackout and forget I said anything."

A beat passes between them. He takes the vodka, takes a swig just to humor her.

"No, I fucking get it," he throws her a knowing look, vulnerability hiding just behind the blue of his eyes.

He's wanted to die every day since he left California, and probably a little before then. Every time Neil brings out the fists.

"It's what happened, between me and Wheeler. I told her I would rather die than go to college because you know existence is meaningless or whatever, and she told my mom that I was suicidal, which is dumb, just because I want to die doesn't mean I'm suicidal, and then my mom really opened up on me about being an ungrateful shit and all of that," she shrugs, as if this is a normal, casual conversation, "and then I never talked to that nosy bitch Wheeler ever again. And I just decided fuck it, fuck all of them, fuck this town, this shitty excuse of living," she sighs, glancing pointedly at the vodka still in his hand, "Now you have to drink even more so you can forget I said all of that too."

He stares blankly at the vodka before meeting her gaze.

"I don't want to forget you said any of that," he counters lowly, setting the vodka off on the nightstand.

He places a hand on wrist, pulling her close; her eyes are sharp now, despite her intoxication. He kisses her desperate and wanting; is met with the eager drag of her lips against his. She doesn't care if he's just telling her some shit she wants to hear or if he's serious; she's touch starved in her self-imposed isolation, hungry for anything that'll make her feel alive, hungry for him beautiful even in his bruises. The split in his lip opens up, the tang of iron and copper blooming against her mouth. She moves to straddle his lap, never separating their lips, hands cupping his face and neck, she swipes her tongue along the source before gingerly sucking his bottom lip between her teeth, licking over a fresh swell of red. He groans against her, and she swallows it with a curl of her tongue against his and pulls away from the kiss.

"We have to be quiet," she murmurs.

He nods, doesn't bother to mention he's never had a girl manage to be quiet before, swipes his tongue along his lip, before capturing her mouth again, licking into her, wanting to taste the reflection of his rage, as she rocks against him. He wishes she was still wearing those cotton shorts from this morning, and not the black jeans she changed into to go the diner. He brushes her crimson hair off of her neck, nips at her earlobe, drags his mouth down the column of her throat; she's already panting soft little breaths, grinding into him when he hits a particularly sensitive spot; he's aching in his jeans.

When he hits the neck of her t-shirt, he skims his hands up her sides, lifting the hem; only gets halfway because then he's thumbing over her ribcage and the old scars smoothed over there. He raises a questioning glance up to her face. She only looks at him through lowered lashes and finishes taking off her shirt. More thinly raised white lines mark her shoulders. She doesn't care. She climbs out of his lap and shimmies out of her jeans while he slips out of her borrowed shirt. He pulls her back onto him, runs a hand up her spine to unclasp her bra as her hands roam the definition of his chest and shoulders, fingers tightening against him when he draws a nipple into his mouth, breath hitching sharply when he pets her through her soaked black lace panties. He pushes them aside, bites off a curse at how slick she is, strokes her briefly before pressing two fingers into her. She's tight and his fingers are so thick; she tangles a hand in his hair, pulls close to the root.

"Jesus _Christ_," he exhales against the shell of her ear.

She's gasping into the crook of his neck as he twists and curls his fingers, setting a nice little rhythm to take her apart, adding his thumb against her clit in firm, sure circles--her fingers are pulling at his hair again--and then she's fluttering around his fingers, kissing him sudden and needy to silence herself as she comes undone, and he drinks down her would be moans with long strokes of his tongue.

She makes quick work of his jeans, popping the button and sliding the zipper down, there's a wet spot on the front of his boxers. It's almost embarrassing really how much his cock is leaking when she pulls it out, thumbs through the fluid gathered at the tip, twisting it down over the head; she's throbbing again just having him thick and hard in her hand.

"Lift your hips dumbass," she teases in an imitation of the previous night. Slides his jeans and boxers down just enough to get them out of the way.

Sinks down onto him while he's still pressing her panties to the side. The slow, wet heat of oblivion. Fuck. He doesn’t know if _he's_ going to be able to keep quiet. She rides him in careful, measured rolls of her hips; savoring the stretch of him. She steadies herself on his shoulder with one hand; palms the bruises on his rib cage with the other, pressing against the muscle there--the pain just enough to sweeten the pleasure; breath catching in his chest. He fists a hand in her crimson hair, pulling her head back, bottom lip catching on her teeth. She rolls harder against him, shifting forward slightly so the tip of his cock drags against that spot inside her with every stroke until she's tightening up like a fist around him, choking off a high pitched moan, eyes fluttering shut, and he's throbbing within her, release washing over him abruptly as his head falls back, physically incapable of breathing from the force of restraining the string of curses threatening to escape past his lips. There's only the black behind his eyes and the sweet sting of her nails raking across his shoulders.

When he finally comes around, she runs her hands languidly over his body one last time before getting up, sliding off him and adjusting her panties, pulls on her discarded shirt, goes over to the window, lifts it open, sits on the floor beside it and lights a cigarette while he tucks himself back into his jeans. He leaves his shirt off, joins her on the floor next to the window. She passes him the cigarette. They share it in silence; letting the smoke carry their thoughts and things better left unsaid with it as it drifts out the window into the evening.

**Author's Note:**

> Self harm is bad. This is not meant in anyway to glamorize self harm or glamorize using other people or alcohol as a solution/way to cope with depression/mental illness/self harm.


End file.
